


Lights Across the Sound

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:58:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was one party at Gatsby's that summer that Nick Carraway never wrote about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Across the Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bethfrish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethfrish/gifts).



> Many thanks to Ro (littlerhymes) for encouraging me to start and to finish, and for being the best beta. :)

Section by section, the lights of his house started twinkling on as dusk fell over the bay. Across the freshly cut grass, the sounds of voices came drifting through my windows. I had left them open to let the breeze in, to chase out the summer heat so I sat down to supper that evening with the soft strains of the orchestra inviting me over. But it wasn’t until half past eight that I wandered over, as the voices from next door grew louder, gayer, encroaching on the neighbourhood as if to stake a claim, as if to say that this Egg belonged to Gatsby and his never-ending whirl of parties.

I took one last look into the mirror and adjusted the collar of my shirt, still sitting stiffly on my body from being so new. It had been sent over with my invitation, and it fit well enough as if it had been tailored for me. I felt embarrassed at the gift - at the generosity and the extravagance, at my impression that Gatsby had felt the need to dress me up. But I had taken the gift, all the same, and I was wearing it to his party tonight.

The party was in full swing by the time I walked through the door. I drifted through the house, pulled by the music and chatter toward the back, where tables dotted the yard, candles burning fiercely on each table like beacons. Some of the guests, though finely and brightly dressed, were already inebriated to various states of disarray. Mr Bemberg, late of Connecticut and as solemn a presence you could imagine in his working days and hours, was already lying on the floor by one table, shirt open and collar askew, stroking the arch of his wife’s bare feet. She didn’t seem to be bothered by it - nor even to notice him at all, captivated by the frantic, fluttering banter at her table. I looked around and saw a sea of strangers, though I caught sight of Klipspringer and nodded at him from across the vast plains of the lawn.

A waiter glided serenely to my side and pressed on me, gently but firmly, a flute of champagne. I took it, not wanting to be rude, and I had drained that and picked up another somehow by the time I found Jordan. She was holding court at a table in the corner where we’d sat at the last party, surrounded by a gaggle of admirers congratulating her on her latest win.

“Nick,” she said, a little bit of Daisy in her voice as she stood up and pressed cool lips against my cheek. “You’re looking handsome tonight.”

She was eyeing my shirt; she had it appraised at a glance, and she approved. She ran her hand lightly down the sleeve before placing it on my wrist, guiding me to the seat beside her. I listened quietly as her crowd talked on, flittering between the events of the tournament yesterday and the latest gossip from the course. Miss Browne, of course you’ve heard of her Nick, she’s been the east coast champion for the last - but oh, what a shocking season she’s had on the green, why surely even Jordan could hardly bear to think of such a poor showing by a competitor.

I thought again, fleetingly and uncomfortably, of the Miss Baker I had heard about before I met her myself, of her careless, ruthless drive. But then she turned her beautiful face toward me - a small smile on her lips, as though she knew a joke she wasn’t going to share - and the moment, the gossip, was forgotten and the conversation headed in a different direction.

I danced with Jordan - was prevailed upon by three other ladies to take them for a whirl around the dance floor in quick succession - and when I returned to the table Gatsby was seated there, watching the party with bright, feverish eyes. He paid no attention to, and received none in return from the guests milling around him. I must have broken his reverie as I threw myself into the chair beside him, feeling unusually cheerful from my fourth glass of champagne, and from the admiring attentions of Miss Collins, my last dance partner.

“Carraway,” Gatsby said, turning to me, shaking my hand stiffly. His fingers grazed the underside of my wrist, brushing skin and the cuff of the shirt. I sucked in a breath and held his hand for a touch longer than polite. He made no mention of it as he let go, and we turned our attentions back to the rest of the table.

“We were just talking about our terrible families,” Jordan said with a hard little laugh.

“Cousins from Bumfuck, Pennsylvania,” shuddered Mr Lilly, a florid man given to alcoholism, his red nose - and his fifth scotch - giving him away.

“You have family here, don’t you?” The girl on my left, whose name I had already forgotten though I would wager I had met her thrice that summer already, at Gatsby’s parties and in passing in town. “You live next door, right across from your cousin - Flora Belfonte told me so, she lives next door to the Buchanans with her aunt.”

I felt Gatsby stiffen at the name, caught Jordan’s eyes sliding across to Gatsby with a knowing look.

“Distant family,” I said, smiling faintly.

“Oh what a shame,” the girl cried, “Daisy’s such a doll, don’t you think?”

“Lovely creature,” mumbled Mr Lilly, slumping further down into his seat. It was hard to tell if he was talking about Daisy, or about the girl sitting across from him, the sleeve of her flimsy dress falling away from her slim shoulder. “Pretty gal.”

A murmur of assent wound around the table, with only Gatsby silent on the issue. Maybe he’d not met her yet.

The girl continued, “And she and her husband make such a handsome couple - “

“Excuse me,” Gatsby said abruptly, getting up from his chair, striding across the room without another word.

Around us, the chatter - the inconsequential babble that had filled my summer so far - seemed to rise in volume sharply. I looked after Gatsby disappearing among the dancers on the floor then back. Jordan was looking down at her shoes, but on my gaze she looked right into my eyes with her clear bold eyes.

“Come dance,” she said, an imperative more than an invitation.

I took her outstretched hands, I danced three dances with her, I forgot about Gatsby’s outburst. And when the night had taken on a dull sheen - my glassy eyes, the same conversations now less sparkling than they seemed at the start - I stumbled into the library for a breather, a moment to clear my head. Standing against the shelves, my forehead against the cool spine of tomes written by solemn, long-dead men, I felt a sense of the outside pressing against me, pushing for a return to reality. I let out a deep sigh and felt myself loosen at the sound.

“Having fun, old sport?”

I started; stood straight, collected myself. My intruder - no, for I had intruded on him - was seated in his red leather armchair in the far corner, in dim shadow cast by the lone lamp by the door.

“Yes, rather,” I said stupidly, still rattled by Gatsby’s presence. Some perverse instinct made me ask, “Are you?”

Gatsby didn’t reply but he had a faint smile on his face as he walked over to where I was. He leaned closer, leaned over me and pulled a book from its neat, orderly row beside my head. I smelled something sharp and woody, a waft of his aftershave. Up close, I could see the weariness in his eyes, the line of his jaw set tight. I let my eyes drift downward, down the lines of his impeccably styled suit; I studied him unabashedly, alcohol-brave, as he paid me no mind, flicking through the pages of the book in his hand.

“Have you read this before?” he asked me, proffering its cover to face me.

I shook my head and waited for him to tell me why I should or shouldn’t bother, to tell me what he thought whether I wanted to hear it or not, to tell me how and what to think - like all the people this society seemed to flourish on. But Gatsby just snapped the book shut, a resounding bang in this quiet between us, and slid it neatly back into its place.

“I don’t hold these parties for my own pleasure,” he said, one hand on the bookshelf beside me, one hand in his pocket.

His face was still close to mine - I could’ve turned my head and met him halfway - and for a brief, giddy moment I found myself looking at his mouth, wondering what Gatsby’s pleasure would be, what he would allow. But then he turned away and I dropped my eyes - when I looked up again, he was smiling that pleasant, shuttered smile, a host’s genial mask, ushering us both out of the moment as he said, “I shouldn’t keep you, old sport, there’ a revel outside still, I believe.”

I didn’t see him at the party for the rest of the night, not until the small hours as we were leaving. Gatsby was at the door, inclining his head briefly at each farewell, making stilted small talk with guests he had barely seen or conversed with all night, and some he certainly didn’t know at all. As we passed him, saying our bright farewells, I saw his hand reach out as if to stall me - I stopped in my path, just beyond him, and waited for a signal that didn’t come. Gatsby’s mouth twisted and he moved on to the next guest, the next in a long line. I flushed at the snub, at my own silly eagerness for his attention, but it seemed no one else had noticed any lapse.

Jordan turned around on the steps and touched my hand gently as we waited for her car to be brought around.

“We should have afternoon tea tomorrow,” she said, “In town, at the Plaza?”

Absolutely, I told her and she touched my cheek, a kiss from her gloved hand, saying goodbye with a fond smile.

I lingered at the edge of the drive, waving goodbye to Jordan as her car passed by, to a few more regulars I had come to know at Gatsby’s parties. When at last there were only a few stragglers waiting for their cars, sleepy-eyed on the porch, the house was once again empty except for the fierce light shining from every window. I started making my way unsteadily across Gatsby’s immaculate lawn, the damp grass crunching beneath my feet. I heard his messenger before I saw him, his quickening steps slushing through the path I had already made. I turned around to see his silhouette against the house, and when he came closer I saw it was one of the boys who had waited tables all night.

He must have been much wearied by this time but he was in good humour as he reached me and said, “Mr Gatsby apologises for the late hour, but he would like to have a word with you.”

I raised my hand to my eyes to shield against the glare and squinted for a better look. Yes - there was Gatsby, still on the porch, impassive. I was too far away by now to see if he was watching us, waiting for me to answer his beckoning.

“Would you follow me please?” a boy continued, already wending his way back toward the house, taking my silence for assent. I paused for a moment - did I go, as if I would always come when called? - but my hesitation lasted no more than a second.

The boy left me at the door of the house. “Mr Gatsby’s instructions were to head upstairs, to the room at the end of the corridor on your left.”

I could hear faintly the clink of cutlery against plates, a vacuum, the noises of a house being packed up and the detritus of party being cleaned away. I took the stairs slowly, wondering why Gatsby wanted to see me - and why he had waited until all his guests had left. Maybe it was my turn to hear the fantastical story he had entrusted to Jordan, that she had steadfastly refused to disclose to me thus far. But maybe he had another reason - and my heart beat fast and loud at that thought. At the door, I took a moment to collect myself before pushing open the door.

We were in a bedroom - a guest room, I surmised, from the blank neutrality of its furnishings, the feeling of dead air that had not been disturbed for some time. Gatsby sat in an armchair by a small table, drinking from a tumbler, something strong, its acrid, astringent smell sat at the edge of my senses. Gatsby waved me to the other chair.

“Do you know why I asked you there?” he said abruptly, not looking at me.

My heart was still racing along. “No,” I admitted, then added honestly, “But I am extremely curious.”

“As am I,” Gatsby murmured softly. He sat back and met my eyes suddenly, clear and direct. He seemed to gather himself in that moment, that confident, almost arrogant smile sliding back across his face. “Do you see us as friends, Nick?”

I was taken aback by his question, and even more so by his use of my name. I had never really thought about whether we were friends - he was my mysterious neighbour, genial host of many parties, generous benefactor of shirts. I said as much, trying not to give away that part of me that saw Gatsby as more, and yet, never quite as a friend. Fantastical, Jordan had said - and there was some fantasy in the way I saw Gatsby, a romantic yearning in the awkward attention he commanded that kept me coming back.

“Then maybe we should become better acquainted,” Gatsby said in a low voice.

Even as I fought the blush spreading upward from my neck, Gatsby stood, drained his glass, and pulled me to my feet beside him. His hand slid to my elbow and kept me anchored there, steady before him, a hair too close though he didn’t move away. I felt so shy - I didn’t know what to do, except that I wanted him to draw even closer.

He kissed me; hand still on my elbow, mine falling to rest at his waist. He tasted of the alcohol he’d been drinking, strong and bitter. I opened up my mouth beneath his and let him press against me, let his fingers deftly work the buttons of my shirt. As the last button came undone, he pushed the front of my shirt aside. Running his finger down the lapel, Gatsby said curiously, “Is this my shirt?”

He had given it to me - by all rights it was my shirt and not his - but I nodded because it was; I had liked it and worn it because it reminded me of him, of something he would wear. Gatsby smiled at my answer and placed his mouth on my neck, where collar met skin, and nipped it with his teeth, drawing a hiss from me. He left the shirt on, opened, as he worked his way down my body - kisses on my collarbone, slow caresses of my chest, my hips that turned cruel with the scratch of his nails along the ridges. I watched him mark me, and smoothed down his hair, and marvelled at the turn of events in this one tumultuous night. And then on his direction, I undid his shirt as he returned to my mouth, his eyes closed, dropping soft gentle kisses as if not to spook a more delicate partner.

In bed, Gatsby was a coolly attentive lover. He knew what he wanted, how to take it - and I, not knowing what to say or what to do - allowed him every liberty, his hands everywhere on my body, stroking me until I was hard and aching for release, for him to end this exquisitely. His mouth on mine, his hands around my cock - we fucked in silence apart from the occasional moan, when he touched me unexpectedly - his lips on my nipple, tugging lightly with his teeth; his body arching against mine, rutting against my thigh.

But there was something furtive in the quiet act - as if Gatsby was used to taking these pleasures in the dark. I thought about his stories - army man, Oxford scholar - and in my head I imagined two soldiers in the dark of a tent, hands upon each other, dirty and quick. And I imagined bright-eyed students, drunk with wine after their first set of exams, fumbling in dormitory rooms. I opened my eyes and saw Gatsby over me, fitting his body against mine, and I came in hot spurts, his skin warm on mine. I reached down and took him in my hand, unsure; Gatsby said nothing, just closed his eyes tight and pumped his hips - one, two, three times - and he too was spent. Then he fell away from me, lying beside me on the bed, as our breathing evened out.

When I woke next, I was lying in bed alone. I knew that for the message it was. I pulled on my clothes quickly, even as I wished never to see that shirt again. The house was cold and dark and completely quiet as I saw myself out.

It was not until I was walking across the lawn, for the third time that night, that I caught sight of him - standing on the edge of his dock, looking out across the sound as I had unknowingly seen him for the first time that summer. My curiosity won out against any sense of embarrassment or shame. I walked over to where he stood; could see, from my vantage point just behind him, that mysterious green light that seemed to call to him from across the water.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I said, my voice a little harsher than I meant it to be.

“It’s a nice night,” Gatsby said mildly, “I had a hankering to see the stars.” He turned to acknowledge me for a brief moment, an impersonal and distant greeting of two sleepless neighbours meeting by coincidence.

I looked up and saw nothing but a limitless, formless darkness. It was not the stars that had brought Gatsby out here, not tonight nor any of the other nights he made this vigil. I looked back toward that green light and wondered what strange, magnificent hope it represented to him, what attraction it held that nothing else in his life could compare.

“Come have lunch with me tomorrow,” Gatsby said suddenly.

“I have a prior engagement,” I said, though my heart leapt that Gatsby was not cutting me out after tonight, that there was hope for our strange, inchoate relationship from here.

Gatsby waved a hand, an almost imperious gesture. “Tea with Miss Baker, yes,” he said impatiently. “I know, and there’ll be time for that. I’ll run you up to town in my car and you can repay me by having lunch with me as I’ve asked.”

It was brusque, almost rude how he anticipated my every answer and assumed my answer to him would always be yes. But I had worn his shirt – I had come when called – I had let him mark me – what more was lunch in the scheme of things?

“Tomorrow morning then,” I said. I waited for a reply, but received none – Gatsby had turned his face away again, was looking once more across the water. I walked back to my house in the unquiet dark, hearing only the sound of my footsteps.

END


End file.
